


The Road Back Home

by dracofire87



Series: The Road Back Home [1]
Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Future Fic, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24383932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracofire87/pseuds/dracofire87
Summary: Kyouya Ootori wants nothing more than to rest after a long business trip. What he gets might not exactly be restful at all...
Relationships: Fujioka Haruhi/Ootori Kyouya/Suoh Tamaki
Series: The Road Back Home [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1764340
Comments: 8
Kudos: 96





	The Road Back Home

**Author's Note:**

> Based off the Ouran anime, but may share some minor details with the manga. Set after Haruhi and Tamaki's marriage, and Haruhi's graduation from law school.

Kyouya Ootori was tired.

The business trip that was supposed to take two weeks had ballooned to a month. He’d performed a routine inspection tour on some Ootori family holdings in Korea as a favor to his brothers, before flying south to nail down a series of personally-held ventures in Australia--which had somehow turned into a trip to Hawaii to wine and dine some new investors, which had unearthed a can’t-miss deal with a technology startup in San Francisco.

By the time he’d _finally_ chartered a jet back to Tokyo, he’d spent more time on planes and in hotels than even he cared to count. And while he had, naturally, had only the best accommodations...it turned out that there was some truth to the phrase “there’s nowhere like home.”

Even for Kyouya Ootori.

Somewhere around Sydney, jet-lagged, more than a little drunk, and staring at the ceiling of his penthouse suite, he’d let his mind wander wistfully back to simpler days when the center of his world had been an abandoned music room.

Kaoru and Hikaru would surely tease him unmercifully for moping. Honey would try and feed him something sweet to cheer him up, or shove Usa-chan in his face, with Mori giving that little smirk from the background. And Tamaki…

Kyouya draped an arm over his eyes and tried to ignore the uncomfortably _emotional_ twist in his stomach. Tamaki would do something annoying and dramatic, of course. Cause a crisis, probably, just so that Kyouya could have the dubious pleasure of fixing it.

Before he could think about it and stop himself, he grabbed his phone and sent a text message to the only person who wouldn’t do something stupid because he was feeling self-indulgent and melancholy.

_Haruhi: Hope you are doing well._

Kyouya re-read the message twice, rolled his eyes, and tossed the phone onto the bedside table. He _was_ being self-indulgent. They were all adults now--the twins, Honey, and Tamaki were well entrenched in their family ventures, Mori was acting as Honey’s strong right hand, and Haruhi was quietly knocking the socks off of the Japanese legal world.

(He’d known that she would, given opportunity--which is why he’d contrived to have her name come up in conversation, during a casual dinner with the senior partner of the Nijima firm, not long after Haruhi had graduated from law school. He’d done nothing so gross as pulling strings outright--Haruhi would never bear the insult of his controlling her future in that way--but it was just enough to lower the barriers a bit. The firm had been perfect for Haruhi, demanding but ethical, and Nijima-san was far too competent to directly influence in any case. But it had been enough to get her an interview--after he’d quietly convinced Haruhi to submit her resume for consideration. She’d flourished under Nijima-san’s mentorship, and Kyouya had nursed the quiet satisfaction of that for months.)

But they were all scattered to the winds now, all busy and thriving. He was simply jet-lagged, and overwrought with too much expensive wine. Still, there was no harm, he supposed, in checking in and making sure Tamaki hadn’t done something ridiculous again.

His phone buzzed, making him jump.

_What’s up, senpai? Everything alright? -H_

Kyouya blinked at his phone. How did she _know?_ He’d always had a gift for business and networking, the subtle game of connections and influences. But Haruhi’s brand of insight still escaped him--the way she looked at a situation and cut straight to the heart of whatever was going wrong, with kindness and quiet humor.

It was no longer a gift he underestimated. Sometimes he thought it was rarer and more valuable than any acumen he possessed.

_Senpai? Are you alright? Should I call Tamaki?_

_No, it’s quite alright,_ he replied hastily. _I had a free moment and thought to check in._ A pause and then, before he could stop himself: _Please, don’t let me keep you up_.

 _It’s fine, I needed a break from the briefs I’m reading anyway_. _Seriously, what’s up? You never message this late._ A pause, and another line. _You hardly message at all, come to think of it._

He sighed, and considered. Finally, he simply said, _all the travel is tiring._

 _I understand. Being away from home can be terribly lonely, even when you’re away for a good reason_.

_Ah, that’s right. Like when you studied abroad in Boston._

_Exactly. =) Hey, I know. I’ll send you emails, like you all did for me. It helped a lot, just to hear about what you all were doing. How much longer are you going to be away for?_

Tamaki had organized that one, after a late night--for Haruhi in Boston, anyway--phone call, when homesickness and culture shock had combined to break her usual calm and drive her to tears, and drove Tamaki to nearly tear his hair out in sympathetic misery. The entire Host Club crew had sent her emails at least once a week--and in Tamaki’s case, often several a day. It had earned them all a gigantic hug each, when Haruhi had come home.

_I’m not sure. At least another week, if I extend my trip to court some of these investors. But it’s really not necessary to go out of your way._

_It’s no trouble, Kyouya-senpai. Call it payment on a debt._

_You don’t owe me anything anymore, Haruhi. That silly vase no longer matters_.

... _you really don’t understand friendship, do you, senpai?_

Kyouya winced, and laughed, in spite of himself. He could practically see Haruhi’s deadpan glower.

_I thought friendship wasn’t about debts and owing._

_Sometimes, senpai, it’s about owing each other so much that it doesn’t matter anymore_.

Utterly ridiculous. He _must_ be tired, for the screen to be blurring like that.

_Irrational, but if you insist._

_I do insist. Get some sleep, senpai. Check your email in the morning._

_And if I don’t?_ He’d had to.

_I’ll sic Tamaki on you, senpai._

_I’m trembling._ He’d smiled, though, and he suspected she knew it. _Goodnight, Haruhi._

When he checked his email in the morning, in addition to the usual business reports and news digests, there’d been two new messages in his inbox, each with the star that indicated that the sender was among a very select group of six people--from whom any message was immediately sent to the top of his list.

One was from Haruhi. The other was from Tamaki. It took him a good five minutes before he could see the screen well enough to read them.

For the rest of his trip, he’d received at least one email a day from _someone_ in the Host Club, and it wasn’t hard to sense Haruhi’s unsubtle hand behind it. He found himself looking forward to them, wondering every morning who it would be _this_ time.

Honey’s single email was surprisingly terse, though he included an album of pictures of the desserts he’d eaten that week--Kyouya had to authorize an increase to his data cap to download it. Mori, on the other hand, had sent a detailed, ten-paragraph long account of their recent trip to Germany on a military-training trip. He’d received one each from Kaoru and Hikaru, then another two from the both of them--mostly little absurdities, and the “memes” they were currently obsessed with.

But the mainstays were Haruhi and Tamaki, who’d sent him an email every day, even if they were just a couple short paragraphs--he could tell how draining Haruhi’s latest case was getting by how abrupt her sentences became, and how Tamaki’s quiet fretting leaked into every word of _his_ message. Part of him chided for getting so _into_ it, but Kyouya couldn’t find it in himself to listen.

It had been oddly useful, in a way. Thinking of what Haruhi and Tamaki would say kept him from walking out on an extremely arrogant American CEO. It would have been a pleasure to “disrupt” the smug smile right off his face, but no...Tamaki wouldn’t approve. By the time it was all over, he’d own the man from his hair gel down to his flip-flops anyway.

Before he’d gotten on the charter jet back to Tokyo, he’d sent a message off to Haruhi.

_About to board the flight home. Thank you._

She’d sent back an emoji of a smiling face surrounded by hearts.

 _You’re welcome. By the way, feel free to drop by our apartment, if you don’t want to be alone when you get home_.

 _Thank you. But it will probably be late_ _when my flight lands._

_Tamaki says “I don’t care if it’s three a.m., you’ll come find us if you need us. That’s an order from Daddy.”_

_He realizes that he’s the least masculine figure among us, correct? And that’s including Honey._

_Do you want to tell him that? Because I’m not going to tell him that._

_Given that he’s clearly reading over your shoulder…_

_Yes, and now he’s trying to grow mushrooms in a corner. I should send you a picture of the puppy-dog-eyes, just for that._

He laughed, quietly, in spite of himself. _My apologies. The jet lag is clearly impeding my cognition._

_I mean it, senpai. If you need people, I want you to come find us._

_...of course. Thank you._

_Have a safe flight, Kyouya-senpai. We’ll see you once you’re home._

And so, some twelve hours later, Kyouya Ootori’s jet touched down at his family’s private landing strip. His phone, syncing up to the local cell service, told him it was 10 p.m. His body didn’t know what to think, just that it was exhausted. He should go back to his apartment, crash into bed, try and sleep off some of the jet lag, and see about having dinner with Haruhi and Tamaki in a night or two. He’d already had his personal assistant clear his schedule for the next few days, for some rest and reacclimation time. The investments he’d secured in Hawaii and San Francisco would inevitably be lucrative, he’d earned it.

His apartment was perfectly comfortable. His bed was just how he liked it. It was tasteful, appropriate...spartan.

Kyouya blinked at his phone.

_Would you two mind a guest?_

When had he typed that?

_We’ll be waiting for you. Does hot-pot sound good?_

His stomach growled, treacherously. It didn’t sound good, it sounded amazing. Commoner food, but...to be quite frank, he’d had enough of tiny portions and rich, three-star dining. Large quantities of simple, savory, and warm sounded _fantastic._

Seeing Haruhi and Tamaki sounded fantastic.

He let his assistant shepherd him to the car--poor Mishima-san looked nearly as wiped out as he felt.

“Take the rest of the week off, Mishima-san. I’ll call you if I need you.”

“Thank you, sir. Should I tell the driver to take you straight home?”

Kyouya, uncharacteristically, hesitated. Then he sighed, and bowed to the inevitable.

“Not quite, Mishima-san. I’ll give the driver the address.”

His assistant looked confused, but had the grace to cover it with a bow. “Yessir. If you need anything, let me know.”

Kyouya nodded, got into the car, and gave the driver the address for Haruhi and Tamaki’s apartment.

The apartment had been a compromise typical of Haruhi’s relationship with Tamaki. By Haruhi’s standards it was unimaginably spacious, with a broad balcony and a state-of-the-art kitchen. By Tamaki’s standards, it was cozy, snug, and a little bohemian--which suited both of them just fine. Kyouya had entertained doubts about Tamaki’s ability to acclimate to a life closer to that of a “commoner” than his own station--but in retrospect, he needn’t have worried. It was where Haruhi was comfortable, and that was all that Tamaki needed.

Kyouya climbed up the stairs to their apartment, feeling fatigue in every inch of his body--he’d sent the driver home, tacitly expecting to spend the night on a futon. He hadn’t yet crested the last flight of stairs when the door opened, spilling warm light into the darkness.

Haruhi smiled at him from the doorway, with Tamaki beaming behind her.

“Welcome home, Kyouya-senpai.”

He let Tamaki and Haruhi take him by the hands, and draw him into the warmth of the apartment.

Inside, he blinked suddenly-blurry eyes to clear them. The smell of warm broth drifted in from the kitchen, making his stomach rumble piteously. He _must_ be tired, because he didn’t even complain when Tamaki hugged him, entirely too enthusiastically--instead he found himself tangling his fingers in Tamaki’s loose shirt, savoring the warmth and clean scent of his friend until his sense of propriety finally kicked in, and forced him to take a more appropriate distance.

Kyouya made sure to hand over the bag of souvenirs he’d begun picking up to Haruhi, who beamed over them gratifyingly, while Tamaki chattered about nothing and shepherded him over to the kitchen, where an amusingly large hot-pot bubbled in quiet readiness. It struck him, oddly, how there was something about the place, small and commoner-adjacent as it was, that felt far superior to his elegantly-appointed penthouse. Something far more...appealing.

He groped at the reason why, while his mouth made polite, instinctive noises of agreement or disapproval to Tamaki’s current topic. There was a clutter of papers on the dining room table--law documents of Haruhi’s, by the looks of them--and an untidy pile of shoes by the door. Tamaki’s piano stood in the corner, by the balcony doors, with sheets of music scattered across the top. Everywhere he looked, there were little signs of use or wear, of a household where no maid came in behind you to tuck away untidiness, or to whisk away anything which showed a hint of imperfection.

It came to him as he finally set his chopsticks down, belly full and warm, with Tamaki _still_ chattering on, while Haruhi watched him with her chin propped up on her hands, and that quiet smile on her face which meant she was well-satisfied.

It was a _home_.

 _Their_ home, imperfect and well-loved, where grandeur and perfection had no place...but neither would there ever be coldness here, or loneliness, or the quiet despair of a child seeking affection to no avail. It made the refinement of his own apartment, his own upbringing, seem sterile and unforgiving, by contrast.

Something in him, the part of him that was still raw, and childlike, and grappling with the bitter realization that the world would have no soft regard for him, keened in pain and longing at the thought, and he bowed his head against it.

“Kyouya-senpai?” Haruhi, with that worry in her voice that he’d once resented--mistaking empathy for pity, and condescension.

“Forgive me,” Kyouya said, struggling to keep his voice even. “The trip was longer than I expected--”

Words cut out, his head coming up in surprise, as her gentle fingers threaded through the soft hair on the back of his head.

“Kyouya-senpai.” Haruhi smiled up at him, gentle and kind, with something else in the depths of her eyes that he could not read--but that called out to that voice in him, making him sway with yearning. “It’s okay. You’re home. You’re safe now. You can let go.”

“I--” His head swiveled towards Tamaki, who must _surely_ be dismayed by this unimaginable intimacy from his own wife--but Tamaki was already behind him, wrapping his arms around Kyouya’s waist, pressing his warmth to Kyouya’s back, and stealing the voice from his throat.

He flashed back, briefly, to a time not long after the founding of the Host Club, when he’d stayed the night at Tamaki’s house--to the bewilderment of his own father and brothers, already dismayed at his esteem for this strange, half-foreign boy--where Tamaki had stolen into his room, and slipped into his bed, and curled up with him; so innocent and shameless about it that Kyouya couldn’t help but acquiesce.

 _“It’s got to be lonely, sleeping in a strange room, in a strange house,”_ Tamaki had whispered. In retrospect, Kyouya now suspected that Tamaki had known that feeling more intimately than either of them could have put words to. _“You don’t mind if I keep you company, do you?”_

Kyouya, who had already realized that he loved Tamaki Suoh, and who had already resigned himself to the uselessness of it, had secretly savored that night for years. Had allowed himself the comfort of it, on the nights when his bed was over-large and over-cold, and sleep seemed far away. Had thought the possibility of feeling that warmth again was nothing but a silly, adolescent daydream.

The reality nearly undid him.

“Tamaki…” His voice slid away from his control, and he swallowed hard.

“Silly. You always did think that just because you were the shadow-king that you had to be cold and terrifying all the time.” Kyouya shivered at Tamaki’s voice in his ear, and nearly jerked out of his grip--but then slender hands spread across his chest, and gently pressed him back against Tamaki.

“We meant to do this better, more gracefully, but…” Haruhi smiled up at him, her dark eyes full of an affection that terrified and melted him in equal measure. “...you seemed so lonely, and so tired. It didn’t seem right to let you go back to that penthouse of yours, all alone.”

Kyouya swallowed again, hard. Surely Haruhi could feel how hard his heart was beating beneath his ribs. Excuse and protest died in his throat, against the calm regard of those eyes--the eyes that had seen beneath his facade so many times, and yet had let him keep the dignity of it.

The two of them had kept his heart beating so many times, when he thought it might freeze and die from the cold and loneliness. How could he _not_ love them for it? And so he’d watched from the background, quietly guarded the growing love between the two of them, used his considerable power to smooth their path and watch their backs--not expecting any reward but quiet usefulness. Surely not expecting _this._

“We? What is...this?” Kyouya sounded slow and stupid to his own ears, and hated it, but his customary calm had long deserted him. Worse, he didn’t _want_ it, didn’t want that cool distance between these two people, these two hearts.

“I suppose you could say…” Tamaki smiled into the back of his neck, and Kyouya felt heat flush down through his belly, twisting and pleasant. “...we’re kind of seducing you.”

Heat flooded his cheeks then--and then redoubled, as Haruhi reached up, took his glasses off, set them to the side. He felt naked without them, exposed without their translucent protection.

“Kyouya-senpai, it’s okay.” Haruhi smiled, and Kyouya’s breath caught in his throat. “We love you too.”

“How did you know?” His voice was rough, broken.

She tilted her head and smiled brightly, the smile which always made him feel rather delightfully stupid, the smile which said _you crazy boys_. “Did you think we didn’t notice all you’ve done for us?”

“All the scrapes you got us out of?” Tamaki’s voice was _right_ in his ear, and it took everything Kyouya had not to reach back and grab for him. “Who took care of the Newspaper Club for us?”

“Who made sure we always had everything we needed?” Haruhi said.

“You always made sure we were safe,” said Tamaki.

Kyouya trembled. He wasn’t sure what emotion was on his face, just that it was naked and unguarded. “Someone...had to.”

“No. They didn’t. You did.” Haruhi replied. Of course she knew. Of course she understood. It was so stupid of him.

Haruhi liked being useful too.

Kyouya shuddered, and closed his eyes, and felt hot tears leak out and spill down his cheeks.

“Senpai. Let go. Let us.” Haruhi’s voice; calm, kind, and inexorably commanding.

Kyouya Ootori, for the first time in many years, let go. He relaxed back into Tamaki’s arms, shivering with the relief of it, drawing breath in a ragged gasp.

“There we go. That’s my Kyouya.” Kyouya’s head turned, seeking Tamaki--and his friend was there already, mouth finding his. Tamaki’s lips were soft, and he tasted of hot-pot and a subtle lip balm, He felt Haruhi’s fingers tighten against his chest as they kissed, and stole a glance back, hesitating--

\--only to find her smiling at him with deep satisfaction and pleasure. “Relax,” she said, her smile widening. “How could I be jealous, senpai? You’re ours, after all.”

His body jerked at that, fingers reaching out, for both of them--tangling in the leg of Tamaki’s pants, blindly threading through Haruhi’s hair. The world seemed to blur a little, going fuzzy around the edges, as need flooded him and chased away exhaustion for a time.

Kyouya let himself fall into it, into that current of warmth and desire, capturing images plucked into memory from amidst the flow of it all. Haruhi’s fingers, sure and deft, undoing the buttons of his shirt one by one, baring the skin of his chest and belly beneath her palms. Tamaki’s mouth on his neck, his ear, dextrous hands slipping below his waistband and making him hiss and whine.

He would not recall, later, how they’d quite ended up in the big, soft bed that he knew was the one great luxury that Haruhi had allowed Tamaki to pay for--only that they had, with the barest of pauses to slip out of socks and shirts and pants that were suddenly far too warm and restricting. He would recall the taste of their mouths, both alike and yet distinctly different; and the shine of streetlights through the window and onto Haruhi’s bare skin in the darkness.

He remembered the noise he made, desperate and breathy, when Tamaki’s fingers finally wrapped around him; remembered Haruhi pressing her mouth in quiet kisses and bites to his chest as he arched and cried out; remembered both their voices, encouraging and warm and wordless, as he spilled out across his belly and Tamaki’s fingers.

Afterwards he floated in the pleasant glow, as Haruhi took his hand and showed him where to touch her; smoothed away his fumbling and moaned in delight as his fingers sank deep. She kissed them both as she showed him how to give her pleasure, and tangled her fingers tightly in his hair as she gasped and clenched around him in release. Tamaki followed soon after, long legs tangled with his as lithe muscles tensed and shuddered.

Kyouya rose just long enough to use the washroom and then collapse back into bed between the two of them. Tamaki stroked his hair while Haruhi murmured affection, exhaustion finally claiming him.

For the first time in many years, he fell without resistance into the black nothingness of sleep.

Kyouya woke only slowly, with a dim and growing realization that he was not in his usual bed. He lingered in the warm doze, mind probing sleepily at the incongruities until he finally brought himself to crack open an eye.

His breath caught in his throat as awareness sank in, followed quickly by memory. He lay there, frozen for a long moment, running possibilities in his head. It was unlikely to have been a hallucination. He hadn’t even been drunk. There was the possibility that they might be able to put it all behind them. Pass it off as an exhausted slip of self-control.

There was, of course, the fact that quite a lot of him did _not_ wish to go back to the prior world of polite distance and friendship. He glanced down. _Quite_ a lot.

He thought about trying to sneak out the door, then realized that he could hear the noise of _someone_ in the apartment. In the kitchen, maybe? The scent of something like cooking eggs wafted in from under the door, and his stomach growled rebelliously.

Kyouya was still gathering up his courage to get out of bed--a ridiculous lack of willpower, but Tamaki did always have strange effects on him--when the door opened, and Tamaki poked his head into the room. His eyes lit up when he saw Kyouya, whose heart betrayed him, rebelled, and skipped a beat.

“Oh, good, you’re awake! Breakfast is ready if you’re hungry.”

Kyouya blinked at him. “Are you wearing...an apron?”

“Yes, isn’t it nice?” Tamaki, if possible, beamed more brightly, the pre-existing resemblance to a human-sized golden retriever growing more pronounced. The apron was pink, and had ruffles on it. Oddly, it didn’t look a bit out of place. “Haruhi got it for me! She said all commoners wear them when they cook!”

Kyouya started to get out of bed, realized that it would mean being very naked in front of Tamaki, and stopped. “Tamaki...since when did you learn how to cook?”

“Haruhi’s been teaching me! She objected to having a chef, you know. But there’s something really rather nice about it!”

He bounded off to finish doing whatever...people who cooked did...leaving Kyouya staring blankly at the door. He got up, put his pants back on--embarrassingly, his shirt wasn’t even in the bedroom--and stepped out cautiously into the rest of the apartment.

It couldn’t be _too_ late, since the morning sun was still streaming, golden, into the apartment. He sat down at the table, and poked gingerly at the scrambled egg and fried rice that Tamaki set in front of him. They _smelled_ alright. He took a bite.

Chewed, slowly. Swallowed. Blinked up at Tamaki.

“That’s...quite good.”

“You think so?” Tamaki studied his face earnestly, then, evidently seeing enough evidence of his veracity, broke into a wide grin. “Haruhi learned how to make scrambled eggs with cheese when she was living in Boston! Aren’t they wonderful?”

To Kyouya’s own self-surprise, they were. Moist, flavorful, nearly dripping with hot cheese...it might just have been his own hunger, but he found himself scooping big bites of rice and egg into his mouth. It tasted _wonderful_.

Part of that might have been the delighted look on Tamaki’s face, though Kyouya had never counted himself a sentimentalist.

He finished the last bite, and set down his fork. “You know, I never thought you’d have it in you to learn to cook like a commoner.”

Tamaki shrugged, unruffled. “You know, I’m learning that there’s something to be said for things that you make yourself. It’s just more... _satisfying_. It’s like building the Host Club, but you can eat it.”

Kyouya looked...skeptical. “I suppose. It is more time consuming, though. And we build plenty of things. Like businesses.”

“Was the only thing you liked about the Host Club, that you were building a business?” Tamaki rested his chin on his hands, and smiled a little.

Kyouya felt his eyes widen, and wished for the comforting shield of his glasses. It would be easy to assume that Tamaki Suoh was nothing but a romantic, emotional idiot...and to be fair, he often was. But Tamaki and Haruhi were _very_ well matched in perceptiveness and intelligence, even if it didn’t always seem like it, and it was something that you forgot at your peril.

He _must_ be travel-addled, to make that mistake.

“Where is Haruhi, anyway?” Tamaki inclined his head, acknowledging the tacit surrender in the change of subject.

“Out shopping.” He pouted. It should have looked childish. Instead, infuriatingly, it looked _attractive_. “She doesn’t let me do the shopping without her anymore.”

Kyouya narrowed his eyes and let himself be baited. “What did you do?”

Tamaki gave him a lesser version of the puppy-eyed gaze that had led to so many Host Club shenanigans. “I only brought back _one_ brand of caviar. And I paid for it!”

“Somehow, I doubt she was impressed.”

“Hmph. It’s not like they had the truly expensive kinds at a commoner’s supermarket.”

Kyouya gave Tamaki a dry look, and got quiet amusement right back, and they both spent a moment in silent bonding over the eccentricities of commoners. Kyouya still hadn’t quite learned Tamaki’s knack of _actually_ caring about them, but he knew how to fake it well enough for Haruhi’s sake.

And for Haruhi, well. He’d long since resolved to burn down the world if it threatened to hurt her. ...and for Tamaki too, come to think of it.

He caught himself making a quiet thinking noise, and looked up into Tamaki’s endlessly amused gaze. Kyouya took a breath, and quietly directed himself to not get lost staring into that shining blueness.

“So. About last night.”

Tamaki smiled, but Kyouya could see the anxiety behind it. “Was it too much?”

“Well...” He found he didn’t like how the start of something that might be ‘yes’ made Tamaki’s face tighten. And, for that matter, it felt perilously close to not being the truth. “...I don’t know. I can’t say that I expected to find myself…” He faltered, and for once found himself without good words.

“...in our bed?” Kyouya jolted, and Tamaki smiled. “I hope it wasn’t unpleasant.”

Kyouya felt himself flush, just a little. “Hardly.”

“Good.” Tamaki studied his face, expression settling into seriousness. “It’s okay, if it was too much. We meant to do more...asking, first. We don’t ever have to do it again, and we don’t ever have to speak of it after this, if you don’t want to.”

“Would Haruhi agree to that, as well?”

“Absolutely. We already discussed it.”

Kyouya blinked. “You did.”

“Of course. Haruhi insisted on it.”

Kyouya felt his world slipping quietly off kilter, despite his best efforts to grab hold of it.

“How long have you two been considering this?”

“A while.” Tamaki smiled, enigmatic as the Mona Lisa.

The world was not so much slipping off kilter, as flipping on its axis entirely. A not-entirely unpleasant sensation, but certainly disorienting.

“You do realize it would be scandalous if it ever came out.”

Tamaki shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“The effect it could have on the Ootori and Suoh Groups is considerable.”

“It would likely make grandmother quite unhappy, yes.”

“It could destroy Haruhi’s career.”

Tamaki’s shoulders tightened--but his smile remained serene. “I’ve told her that.”

“Tamaki, you--” Kyouya stopped as a key turned in the lock of the front door. Haruhi opened it and stepped through, shopping bags on each arm.

“Ah, good morning Kyouya-senpai.” Haruhi surveyed the two of them, clearly looking for blood or tears, and finding none, smiled. She set her bags down, kissed her husband, and eyed Kyouya like she was thinking of doing the same with him. Instead the two of them unpacked the groceries, slotting them into the organization of the kitchen with a well-oiled efficiency.

Kyouya watched them, with a vague sort of envy. What would it be like, to be so familiar and well matched with someone that you could almost do without talking? That you just knew where the other was going to be?

...on consideration, he suspected it might feel like the heyday of the Host Club. It was almost a game, then, to anticipate what would be needed, to smoothe problems out almost before they occurred. What would that feel like on the level of a _life?_ Two lives, moving...if not in unison, in harmony. Could you add a third element to that, and not have it come unbalanced? Would it become a richer harmony, or just dissonance?

He realized, belatedly, that Haruhi had sat herself down across from him, and was looking at him with an expression that suggested she had at least some guess as to the thoughts going on behind his face. Silently, she handed him his glasses--and he flushed, seeing it for the gift of dignity and safety it represented. Tamaki was puttering around the kitchen still, but he suspected that there was no real division of attention there.

Gently, he took the glasses from her fingers and set them aside.

Haruhi smiled at him. “I take it you two have been talking.”

“Yes.” Though he didn’t put them on, Kyouya found himself quietly running his fingers over the frames of his glasses. It was comforting, somehow--cool metal slowly warming beneath his fingers. “You realize that this could be devastating for all of us, were it to become public. And people like Tamaki and I, we are under far greater scrutiny than mere comm--” He shut his mouth, struggling for something less insensitive. For once.

“Yes, I’m just a commoner, I know.” Her voice was dry, but gentle; her expression somewhat acerbic. She had let enough slip, across the years, for Kyouya to know that she did not always consider the families of his rank and station to be strictly _superior_ in quality. “I’m aware that what we did last night is more than a little socially unacceptable.”

Kyouya frowned in thought. “As a one-off, it’s honestly hardly remarkable. People, even of our station, have...sexual adventures...all the time. So long as it’s not obvious, or frequent, it’s simply a...a curiosity.”

Haruhi just smiled crookedly and motioned for him to continue.

“From what Tamaki told me, and from what I remember of last night--” Kyouya tried to push his glasses up on his nose, and belatedly realized that he still wasn’t wearing them. “--suggests that you’re considering something a little less acceptable than an impulsive threesome.”

“Yes. If I recall, we mentioned something about loving you.”

Kyouya forced his fingers not to clench around his glasses, forced himself to breathe until the warm knot that simple declaration forced up into his throat dissipated. “Yes.”

Haruhi watched him, quiet and intent. “If you don’t reciprocate, that’s okay, Kyouya-senpai. We made a guess. We hoped we guessed correctly.”

He swallowed against a mouth gone dry. He remembered, with uncomfortable clarity, having reciprocated quite vocally. “You’re well aware that I don’t precisely _do_ romance and affection. It’s all quite problematic, you see.”

She just smiled at him. Tamaki watched him cautiously from the background--and Kyouya wondered, suddenly, just how much it had cost his best and oldest friend to put himself on the line like this. Tamaki loved far more freely than he himself did--which is to say, Tamaki loved, period, at all--but did not love as deeply and as often as many people thought he did.

Kyouya was quite aware of exactly how vulnerable Tamaki Suoh was beneath the facade of the careless and romantic prince. The thought of striking a blow, however inadvertently, beneath that armor, made the eggs in his belly turn to sour ash.

He turned the conversation to safer waters, waters that would not require him to betray that exposed heart. “Haruhi, surely you understand that while Tamaki and I could weather a scandal fairly hardily, your career is much less likely to withstand such a problem. You have neither wealth or family of your own to sustain you.”

Haruhi’s smile turned edged, and her head tilted. “Do you think my father would care?”

“No.” No, Kyouya’s only fear if Ranka were to learn of this was that they might wish to be _included_.

“Do you think Tamaki would abandon me?”

Kyouya looked up at Tamaki’s expressionless face, and remembered exactly how well it had gone for _anyone_ who had gotten between Tamaki and his loved ones. “No. Never.”

“Would Honey-senpai? Mori-senpai? The twins?”

He imagined a horde of paparazzi coming face to face with those four, and smiled. “No.”

“Would you?”

He blinked. Found himself caught by those brown eyes, and held.

_Didn’t you just tell yourself that you’d burn the world for her? What would the Ootori name be worth, if you abandoned your faith at such a late juncture…_

“They could go to hell,” he heard himself say.

Haruhi smiled, and time started to tick again.

“Then it seems like I have plenty of family to support me.”

Kyouya looked up at Tamaki for support, and saw, to his surprise, a mirror of Haruhi’s determination looking back at him.

“Why?” The question came unbidden to his lips.

Haruhi laughed, and gave him _that_ smile. _You crazy boys._ “Because some things are more important than careers or study. The Host Club taught me that.”

As if it was that simple.

She reached out and placed a hand over his. “It’s alright. You don’t have to decide on anything right now. And if you decide that you don’t feel the same way, we understand.”

He suspected that she really would. She might even believe him. Tamaki, well...he tried to ignore the way Tamaki was fluttering, nervously, behind Haruhi’s shoulder. No poker face, that one.

What _did_ he want? What did _he_ want?

For the first time in a _very_ long time, Kyouya Ootori wasn’t sure.

“Go home,” Haruhi said, gently. “Rest. You’ve had a long trip, and I’m sure you have things to take care of back here. We’ll be here, if you’re ready.”

Kyouya nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Haruhi and Tamaki helped him gather up his clothes. He texted his driver to come pick him up.

Before he got into the car, he glanced up at the door to their apartment. Haruhi and Tamaki waved at him. Kyouya gave a little wave back.

He got in the car. Went back to his apartment. Laid on the bed. Stared up at the ceiling.

Kyouya realized, slowly, that this gorgeous, spacious penthouse no longer fit his definition of “home.”

KYOUYA OOTORI WILL RETURN...


End file.
